


incomplete

by tiffanyblews (peppermintz)



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Object Insertion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 12:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6566668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintz/pseuds/tiffanyblews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Tyler brushes his thumb over Josh's mouth. Josh doesn't stir, but Tyler wishes he would, because he needs something to tire him out. They could indulge in something simple like pillowfights or jumping on the bed until it groans.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	incomplete

**Author's Note:**

> set sometime in 2012.
> 
> edit: THE ENDING WAS PURPOSEFULLY LEFT IN SUSPENSE, PLEASE STOP CONTACTING ME ABOUT IT

The digital clock on the bedside table reads 1:39 A.M. and Tyler is beyond awake. Agonizingly awake. Like he's been chugging Red Bull for the last three hours and it's flowing through his veins, pumping into his heart and making him breathless.

He rolls over on the bed to face Josh again, who is beyond asleep. His lips are parted, dark curls wild and mussed and sticking to his skin. His breathing is even and he's at peace, adorable and awing at the same time.

Tyler brushes his thumb over Josh's mouth. Josh doesn't stir, but Tyler wishes he would, because he needs something to tire him out. They could indulge in something simple like pillowfights or jumping on the bed until it groans.

Tyler is sad and awake. He rolls over a second time and stares at the ugly floral patterns covering the hotel room walls, lit dimly by the moonlight streaming through the windows, emptiness gnawing at his guts. Like he's full of worms. Worms and other bugs and unpleasantries, devouring him and making him feel as gross as he is.

Lust is a gross thing. Tyler hasn't ever really had to deal with it much, aside from little bursts throughout adolescence and shallow instances not worth noting and things like that. To the point: it hasn't been a major problem.

Joshua Dun makes it a problem.

Tyler squeezes his eyes shut and exhales, hating himself. Trying not to think about what he's doing, he licks his palm and reaches into his briefs, curling his hand around his cock.

He feels icky. Icky plus gross because he should have more shame than this. He should at least get in the shower and do this, because if Josh _does_ wake up, it's better telling your friend you wanted to take a shower at one in the morning, rather than telling him you're sorry because you were jerking off next to him. But Tyler isn't wise or more shameful, as it happens. He lets out a tiny, shuddering breath and presses his face into his pillow, his hips jerking in time to his rhythm.

He has thoughts sometimes during shows, during those moments when blood is rushing through his ears and he's in between words and Josh is playing drums and channeling his energy through the pit of his soul and sweat is flying, sometimes with his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, and Tyler wants to throw himself at Josh and get shoved down on the stage like he's worthless. Down on his knees so he can mouth at Josh like he's starving. But then the next verse starts and Tyler's lost in himself, shouting at the crowd, telling kids how much they're worth to the world and to themselves and it's the most important thing again.

Then time passes when Tyler blinks again and it's post-show and the thoughts intensify because adrenaline is making his blood crackle and Josh is still shirtless and they're backstage and Tyler _wants_. He could drag Josh into the nearest, darkest corner and beg for it, hook his legs up over Josh's waist and pant and keen, and he could pass it off as running his excess energy down. But he doesn't do it, because it could ruin their relationship and then it'll ruin the band. Tyler knows Twenty One Pilots couldn't ever function again without Josh, despite what the band started out as. Perhaps it's a kind of unhealthy dependency.

Tyler tries to swallow down a whine as he twists his fingers around his cock. He wants more than this, he needs _something_ more – he holds his hand still, thinking wildly. He shakes his head ever so slightly at himself when the thought comes to him, because he can't do _that_ , especially not in this bed, that's disgusting. It is really disgusting. It's so disgusting that he takes his hand out of his briefs and sucks on his fingers, tasting the salt of precum. When he pulls them out, they're dripping and soaked and he quickly works his briefs off with his free hand, jostling the bed enough to finally make Josh stir and Tyler freezes.

Josh mumbles something incoherent and curls up, hugging blankets to his chest. Tyler waits with baited breath until Josh is still once more. Biting his lip, Tyler turns on his side and stretches himself open with his thumb and pinky, pressing the tip of his middle finger inside himself.

Tyler bites his tongue instead so he won't hiss aloud as he pushes his finger in to the knuckle. It burns and he's too tight, but he has to be patient with himself. He tries to get used to the feeling before he begins fucking himself slowly on his finger, pressing his face into the pillow again.

He thinks about Josh's fingers a lot. Tyler has held Josh's hand a million times and then some, so he has the feeling of Josh's fingers memorized. They're callused and long and pretty and they could do the most beautiful kind of damage and Tyler needs them. Tyler makes a soft little whimpering sound into the pillow, the pain finally fading and making room for pleasure. He adds a second finger alongside the first, his toes curling and a shudder snapping down his spine.

His breathing, labored but muffled by the pillow, matches up with each thrust of his fingers. He crooks them ever so slightly and does everything he can not to moan when he grazes his prostate, his hips bucking against his hand. It shakes the frame of the bed and Josh stirs a second time, sighing in his sleep. Tyler swears silently.

This is good, this feels incredible, but it's still not enough. He needs Josh. He needs something of Josh's, at least, something personal –

 _Oh God._ Tyler pulls his fingers out of his ass, his face burning as he recalls something he read out of morbid curiosity a few months ago. He doesn't know how he found it or why. He only remembers he _did_ read it and, on some faint level, wondered if it would work.

He has two reservations. Number one: Josh would have a heart-attack and die if he knew what happened. Number two: Tyler hasn't ever done anything like that before and he's sort of scared to try it.

Tyler lays with one hand curled in his pillow, the other aloft and sticky while he tries to think the matter over. Josh's bag is at the foot of the bed, and Tyler knows where Josh keeps what. It would be easy and Josh is a heavy sleeper. He could do this.

He will do this.

 _God forgive me, God forgive me,_ Tyler repeats like a litany in his mind as he wipes his hand on the sheets and climbs off the bed. He snatches Josh's bag off the floor and unzips it, cringing at the noise.

He pulls the drumsticks out of an inside pocket and looks at them for a moment, his blush worsening. They're smooth and thick and basically perfect. Tyler wishes he had some sort of lubricant to make this easier, but spit's going to have to do.

He returns to the bed, casts a glance at Josh to make sure he's still sleeping soundly. Tyler shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath before laying down, head on the pillow. He licks along the length of the drumsticks and sucks on the tips. His eyes flutter shut as he coats the drumsticks in salivaand spreads his legs apart as much as the bed and space between him and Josh will allow.

He pulls the drumsticks out of his mouth with a small _pop_. He chews on his lip and takes one drumstick in his other hand, bracing himself and sliding as much of it as he can inside himself. Tyler turns his head and bites down on his pillow, knuckles white on the drumstick.

He pushes the drumstick in and out, deliberate and careful with each stroke. His cock twitches and fireworks fizzle in his stomach when he hits his prostate and he swears as quietly as he can manage into his pillow. He quickens his pace until each breath he takes sounds like a little sigh.

Tyler wants more. Fumbling a little, he takes the second drumstick, licking it speedily. He releases the first drumstick and grasps his asscheek, spreading himself wider so he can fit in the second.

“A-ah, ahh,” he whimpers softly, working in the second drumstick. It's too much for a moment and it aches. Tyler tries to get himself together, covering his mouth with his hand and breathing out through his nose.

Tyler counts ten, twenty, thirty seconds before he curls his fingers around the drumsticks and begins to use them. He feels full, _wonderfully_ full, and it still burns and he's still a little tight but he doesn't care, this is _exactly_ what he needed. He wishes he could cry and moan. He rolls onto his stomach so he can try and rub against the sheets, praying harder than he ever has in his life Josh won't wake up.

He grinds against the drumsticks, panting into his pillow. He's close already and a part of him wishes Josh _would_ wake up, but just to finish him off, touch him at least once; Tyler knows he'd be gone as soon as Josh laid a hand on him. He wants to sit on Josh's lap and get jerked off, lavished with kisses. Or shoved against the mattress, Josh's hand wrapped around his neck. Or on his knees, Josh's fingernails leaving marks over Tyler's scalp and Tyler's lips on the head of Josh's cock, sucking and licking. Or his back against the wall –

Tyler's back arches and he lets a cry escape. Josh stirs a third time but Tyler couldn't care less. Shaking, Tyler grips his cock and it doesn't take more than a few sharp tugs of his wrist before he comes, spilling thick and hot onto the sheets.

It takes a minute before Tyler steadies out. He pulls the drumsticks away with an almost imperceptible grunt, wincing at the feeling.

He sits up, avoiding the mess on the bed, and stares at the drumsticks. That was a terrible thing he just did. He'll have to wash them off now, exhausted and spent as he is.

He pads across the hotel room floor, making his way towards the bathroom. He feels his heart tumble into the pit of his stomach when he hears rustling on the bed and a sleepy, gentle voice.

“Tyler? What'sa. . . what're you doing with my drumsticks?”


End file.
